A
groaning sounded from the couch. All eyes turned to Feng, who moaned again and
rubbed at his eyes.

“Anyone
get the number of that bus?” he asked.

He
tried to sit up, but Lelanea rushed to his side and pressed him back onto the
couch.

“Oh
no you don’t,” she said. “You need to rest.”

A
growl rolled across the cab, and for a moment, Dodger thought she was the
source. That was, until Feng grabbed his belly and winced.

“Actually,
I think I need to eat,” the Celestial said. “How many numbers did he hit me
with?”

“I
counted at least three,” Dodger said.

The
cook’s belly growled again. “Feels like ten.” He waved Lelanea away. “Let me
upright, girly. I’ll get stoved up if I stay on my back like this.”

Lelanea
helped Feng into an upright position, while the man gathered his robe around
his almost naked form with a sheepish grin.

“Nothing
like waking up in just your undies,” he said. After he realized he couldn’t tie
his robe closed with a ruined belt, he asked, “Who cut my sash?”

“Sorry
about that,” Dodger said.

“Not
at all. They’re a dime a dozen. I just wonder if you always resort to blades
when defrocking your prey.” Without giving Dodger a chance to rebut, Feng
nodded to Boon and said, “I see you have the ghost thing sorted out.”

“That’sh
what I thought,” Ched said.

“There’s
a bit of a snag with that,” Lelanea said as she fluffed a pillow and poked it
behind Feng. “Uncle can’t see Boon.”

Feng
raised an eyebrow. “You can, I assume.”

“Yes,
as can those two, and I assume you as well. I’d ask why you all banded together
to keep it a secret from me …”

“I
asked them-” Boon started.

“Not
now,” she said over him as she crossed her arms. “There isn’t time to go into
this properly. We will talk about this later.”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

“After
we get you back to your corporeal form.”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

“It
wouldn’t be fair to the others for me to be tempted to smack them and not be
able to dole the same punishment to you as well.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dodger
thought he heard the driver chuckle.

“I
wonder why Hieronymus can’t see you,” Feng said.

Boon
shrugged. “I have no idea. I mean, they can see me. Why not the doc?”

“Of
course they can see you. Ched is as good as dead. I’m sure he sees more than
just your spirit these days.”

The
driver grunted. “Ain’t dat tha truth. I wish I didn’t she shpiritsh. The dead are almosht ash
annoying ash the living.”

“And
I imagine Miss Lelanea’s reasons don’t need an explanation. Aside from her
gifts, she was the closest to you in life. It is only natural she should see
you.”

“I
thought as much,” Boon said, smiling shyly at the lady.

Lelanea
smiled in return.

Dodger
wasn’t ready to go down that road again, so he quickly moved the conversation
along. “And what about me?”

“What
about you?” Feng asked. He winced as his belly rumbled once more. “My stomach
is thanking me every time I swallow. Anything to eat on that trolley?”

Lelanea
set to checking for something edible as Dodger repeated his question.

“Why
can I see Boon?” he asked. “I’m not dead, nor did I know him in life.”

“That
one’s easy,” Feng said.

“Here
we go,” Lelanea said. She pulled forth a tray of bread and cheese from the
bottom shelf of the trolley. “Uncle must’ve been ready for you.”

Feng
rubbed his hands together. “Good ol’ Hieronymus. Always prepared.” He held his
hands out and motioned for the tray. “Gimme, gimme.”

“What’s
so easy about it?” Dodger asked. “Why can I, of all people, see Boon?”

Just
as Lelanea was about to hand over the silver tray, Feng said, “Because you’re marked.”

The
word must’ve meant something impressive, or terrible, or possibly both, to Miss
Leleanea, because no sooner had the Celestial said it than she dropped the tray
of food. It slipped right through Feng’s outstretched hands and clattered to
the floor, scattering grain and dairy products all over the meeting-cab floor.

Lelanea
stared at Dodger for a moment, as if seeing him for the very first time, then
backed away slowly while a look of utter horror crossed her beautiful face. “He
is. I don’t understand how I missed it. I didn’t sense the mark on him before.”

“You
didn’t?” Ched asked. “Hell, I shaw it the shecond he shtepped onto the Schleipnir
the firsht time.”

“You
be quiet!”

“Don’t
take it out on the village idiot,” Feng said. He bent double to scoop several
pieces of bread and cheese from the floor, blowing on them lightly before
stuffing them in his mouth. “You just weren’t expecting it, that’s all. I mean,
look at the man. He looks as about as marked as you look a werewolf.”

“Feng!”
Lelanea gasped, holding the back of her hand to her mouth in mortified shock.

“What?
I’m just stating the obvious. You missed it because you weren’t looking for
it.” The Celestial thought about this for a moment, then added, “Well, that and
I suppose both of your hormones and pheromones were mucking up the signals a
bit.”

Boon
cocked his head at that suggestion, while Lelanea turned away in a huff.

Ched
didn’t hide his chuckle this time.

“None
of this makes a lick of sense,” Dodger said, choosing to ignore the Celestial’s
insinuations. “I saw his spirit before I went to the Desert Rose. So whatever
happened there to mark me has nothing to do with this.”

Around
a mouthful of cheese, Feng said, “That’s because what happened to you at the
Rose has nothing to do with you being marked.”

“I
thought the vampire blood was-”

“You
thought wrong.” Feng gnawed off another hunk of bread and swallowed it with a
wince. “Lelanea, be a dear and get me a cup of something wet. Will you?”

Lelanea
moved to the trolley to do as asked, giving Dodger a wide berth as she did.

Wasn’t
that grand? In just a few hours, she’d gone from enjoying a moonlit stroll with
him to avoiding his personal space. Dodger tried to ignore the circumventing as
he stared at the Celestial. “Are you going to explain that one to me, or will
this just be another great secret everyone is in on but me?”

“It’s
very simple,” Feng said. “Being marked is not a product of your time spent in
the arms of those lovely ladies. You were marked long before then, my friend.”

“That
isn’t helping.” Dodger huffed in frustration. “Let’s start with something
simpler. What in the heck does this whole marked thing mean?”

Feng
contemplated this question as he chewed on a mouthful of cheese. He gave
another dry swallow, then asked, “In all of your reading, have you ever come
across the idea of someone being marked for death?”

Shakespeare
leaped immediately to Dodger’s mind. The Bard had a habit of killing off a few
characters just to move along a plot. Dodger didn’t like where this was going.
“I guess so.”

“You,
my gifted friend, suffer the opposite affliction.”

Which
made about as much sense as anything else the Celestial had said all night.
“Then I’m what? Marked for life?”

“In
a way. It is better said that you are marked for a purpose. And you will remain
on this earth until you fulfill that purpose.”

“Which
means what to me, exactly?”

“A
whole lot. For starters, there are the obvious side effects. Seeing spirits.
Utilizing underspeak.”

“He
underspeaks?” Lelanea asked as she passed the Celestial a cup of tea.

“He
sure does. And took to it like a champ. Dodger, I’m sure there are a plethora
of other abilities you possess that you always thought were random talents.
Your unerring aim, for instance.”

“I
don’t think that has-” Dodger started.

“You
took right to the gun, didn’t you? From the first time you lifted a weapon, you
have always hit your mark. Yes?”

Dodger
nodded, unable to deny the accusation. Even as an untrained youth, he had no
trouble hitting his targets, and that was just firing the family rifle at tin
cans or the occasional coon. When it came time to turn that talent on humans,
Dodger was well beyond caring where his unusual ability came from.

“It’s
more than just a bent toward marksmanship,” Feng said. “A keen eye and a steady
hand are both well-documented gifts of the marked. Some say they are abilities
granted to help the bearer complete his issued task.”

“I’m
nobody special,” Dodger insisted.

“Come
now, Dodger. I thought you would’ve learned by now that everyone is special in his
own way. I am sure you wonder who or what marked you, but that would be powers higher
than we can possibly understand. Call it Fate. Call it Destiny. Call it
Ishmael. As to when, I would say you’ve been a marked man your whole life. I
dare say you were born with the task on you. Now as to the task itself, that is
something you will have to find out on your own.”

Before
Dodger could argue further, the far door all but burst open, spilling a very
excited professor, sporting a pair of goggles atop his forehead, into the room.
The man gasped for breath as if he had run the entire length of the train. He
stared at the stunned group for a quiet moment before he slid the pair of
goggles over his eyes. The moment the SPECS slipped into place, the doc’s face
lit with unbridled joy.

“Washington!”
he shouted, then laughed aloud.

“You
can see me?” Boon asked.

“I
thought I would never see you again,” the professor said, patting his hands
together in excitement as he stepped toward the spirit.

“You
can see me?” Boon echoed, as if he didn’t believe the proof before his own
ethereal eyes.

“Hieronymus!”
Lelanea squealed as she hugged the doc to her. “This is marvelous. I’m so
pleased for you.”

“As
am I,” Boon said. “I thought I’d never get to talk with you again.”

“Wait
now,” the doc said. “His mouth is moving. Is he speaking?”

Boon
looked to Dodger. “He can’t hear me?”

Dodger
caught on to the situation right away. “Yes, sir, he is speaking. The goggles
must let you see him, but not hear him.”

“And
to think I almost forgot about these silly old things.” The doc tapped the side
of his SPECS.

The
goggles boasted a few more buttons than the normal SPECS, as well as a dial
across the bridge of the nose. Each eyepiece was crafted from what looked like
a topaz, deep in color, thick and so convex that they protruded a good inch or
more from their insets.

“They
are based off of my SPECS design,” the doc said. “I call them the Spectral and
Poltergeist Image-Capturing Spectacles. I was working on the SPICS for a
grieving widow who thought her husband was haunting her. But we abandoned the
project when all of the spiritual trouble turned out to be a raccoon hiding in
her attic. I never suspected they would actually work. Then again, I never had
the chance to try them out.”

“Tell
him I’m glad he can see me,” Boon said. “And that I am sorry he can’t hear my
tacky voice.”

Ched
related the strange message for the spirit.

The
doc gave a soft giggle before he turned to Dodger and explained, “I always told
him he had a certain grind to his voice that made his listeners feel as though
they were chewing on tacks. It was the endless questions, you see? He never
stopped asking questions.”

“I’ve
heard as much,” Dodger said.

“Ched,”
the doc said. “Please tell him I’m sorry as well.”

“What
for?” Boon asked.

“He
can hear you,” Dodger said.

“Ah,”
the doc said. “That’s convenient, I suppose.” He drew a deep breath and started
again. “I’m sorry, Washington Boon. I am sorry for dragging you into this line
of work, and I am sorry you died because of me. I am sorry we never got a
chance to-”

“That’s
not true,” Boon said while the doc continued his apologies. “Tell him I went
into that town on my own because I had business there. He didn’t send me.”

Ched
repeated the spirit’s words over the continuing speech, to which the doc fell
quiet and held up a hand, silencing the driver.

“I
will have my say,” the doc said. “Boon suffered that awful fate in Celina
because of his association with me. Not a single soul here can deny it.”

Not
one did.

“For
that,” the doc continued, “I am sorry. He may have endangered himself by
traveling alone and unarmed, but I will not let him shoulder the burden of what
transpired by himself. Do you understand?”

“Yes,
sir,” Boon said with a dramatic nod for the doc’s benefit. “And thanks for
that.”

“He
shaid yesh and thanksh ya,” Ched said. The driver then muttered, almost under
his breath but just loud enough to hear, “And he alsho shaysh you should up my
whishkey allowansh. Shays it’sh a shame to keep shuch a thirshty man on a
shingle bottle a week.”

The
doc narrowed his eyes at the driver. “I think it might be best if you don’t act
as a mouthpiece for our Boon. I can see it will be difficult to wrest the truth
from you.”

“I
thought dead men told no tales,” Feng said.

“Feng,
my old friend,” the doc said, pushing the SPICS onto his forehead as he joined
Feng on the couch. “I didn’t realize you were awake.” The doc grabbed up the
man’s wrist and removed a pocket watch from his own vest, obviously checking
the Celestial’s pulse. “How are you feeling?”

“Like
I could eat a horse.”

“Excellent.
Then, in my professional opinion, I am pleased to say you are on the mend.” He
returned the watch into his vest pocket with a grin. “I suppose what they say
is true. All is well that ends well.”

“I
wished that it were at an end, Hieronymus. I’m afraid there is much left at
hand before we see any sort of rest. We still have to get our Mr. Dodger to his
date with destiny.”

The
doc wrinkled his nose. “I’d forgotten about that bit.”

“Yes,
there are miles to go before we sleep, folks. Miles to go before we sleep.”

As
the Celestial repeated what sounded like a pleasant bit of poetry, Dodger began
to ponder that single question that burned ever brighter in his mind.

What
task was Rodger Dodger marked to complete before he could finally lie down and
sleep?